Nothing But Perception
by january sunshine
Summary: After the funeral of a neighbor, Zexion finds himself in possession of something he doesn't wanta clingy, hyperactive 'boy' who wants to disrupt his life in the hopes of one simple thing: Zexion's happiness. .Zemyx!.
1. circumstance

That's right, readers; DP has started yet _another_ project.

Why, you may ask? Because I… wanted to write a Zemyx, that's why! I'm currently working on finding an actual plot for Whispered Melody 2 (extra thanks to **Drakial** for lovely ideas, which) so you all get this until I get enough of the sequel to post it.

* * *

**Nothing but Perception**

by Darkness Princess

**-one-  
**_Circumstance_

* * *

Zexion hated funerals. They were always dark and quiet, containing crying family members, always including at least one woman sobbing uncontrollably, and soon older people who didn't seem to know that no matter how much they cried, the deceased wouldn't be capable of hearing them. Today, Zexion had seen sixteen people dissolved in their tears, their crying ranging from sobbing to wailing to one who made shuddering noises while she hiccupped drunkenly.

Some of the people seemed completely confused as to why they were around, and a little boy sat in the second row of the church, turning to a woman presumed to be his mother, who kept asking, "How come Mister Gepetto's in the big box? Can he breathe in there?" He was hushed numerous times but refused to stay silent until he received answers.

The calm priest continued to speak, loud voice booming at times, quivering in others, as he spoke of a "soul departing this wondrous Earth to return to the Lord."

Zexion called it bullshit. Though he wasn't an Atheist, he hadn't declared all of his religious beliefs. He just knew one thing—his nice neighbor, Mr. Gepetto, was dead. Dead and soon to be buried six feet under. To be honest, Zexion had only come because he had been informed that he had been included in the will. He was completely uninterested in the actual process of the departing of humans to some world nobody could be certain existed. He learned this when he sat through his parents' funeral, struggling to listen to the priest the best he could until he gave up and stared at anything and everything besides the coffins.

Today reminded him of that day, seven years ago, when he was that thin and short fourteen-year-old boy who seemed so lonely now that his parents had been killed in that horrendous car accident, who sat next to a quiet aunt in the front row and ignored her each time she smacked his arm and told him to listen. Everyone dismissed his distant, wondering state as grief, and his aunt had taken him to a counselor. He was fine, he already knew that, but the counselor didn't seem convinced. He stopped attending sessions when he turned sixteen and became an emancipated minor.

That was around the time he met Mr. Gepetto. He had been the kind man in the house down the street, who made puppets in his spare time. He had grandnieces and grandnephews who visited him as often as they could, but the man was often lonely. Zexion wasn't sure how he had managed to befriend the man, but somehow, after a few minutes of mild conversation, he found that the man had a love of books almost as grand as his own. Somehow, he managed to spend every Thursday with the man, in his small, cottage-like house, for tea and sometimes baked goods brought by one of his grandnieces.

Then one Thursday, Zexion arrived to hear that the man had passed away, and was invited to the funeral.

He just didn't understand what was so upsetting. It might've been because he wasn't as close to the man as his family was—though that didn't explain his own lack of emotion towards his parents'—but he was highly uninterested.

The priest finally concluded his speech and they prayed. Zexion politely bowed his head and shut his eyes, though only an empty black void of absence came to his mind. He had no thoughts; he didn't feel very concerned over the death of a man he only saw once a week. It was a kinder therapy, only mild conversation.

To be honest, Zexion knew he was a cold individual. He should've cared, he knew; he just couldn't. He felt as if he were physically incapable. He sat quietly in the pew, ignoring that child who was asking, again, why Mr. Gepetto was in the "box," and the women dissolving in tears, and that one woman who had probably downed a lot of wine before the funeral.

They soon removed the body. In a dramatic procession of a group of men lifting the coffin, all in similar black suits as they carried the body from the church, Zexion left the church with the other guests as the body was moved to rest atop a horse-drawn carriage. It was old-fashioned and actually a tad smelly, and Zexion had stepped into horse manure at least once on the way to the gravesite. They walked past tombstones an grave markers and numerous flower bouquets, sometimes passing by a person or two, but soon stopped upon arriving at a small tent, under which a few chairs had been placed.

More talking, Zexion knew. It had happened at his parents' funerals. They were brought to the perfectly-dug holes and their coffins were placed onto metal contraptions which would gently lower the body into the ground. Then, after people cried their hearts away until they had nothing left to cry, the place would vacate, the tent would be removed, and the diggers would fill in the holes. Same old, same old.

_Seen one funeral, seen 'em all_, Zexion figured. It just seemed so typical. Of course, the people always varied, but they always seemed to do the same thing. Cry, try not to cry, pretend not to cry, be so distraught they couldn't cry, or have something to prove by not crying. Then there were those who weren't even sure why they had been invited to attend. Zexion figured he fit in that latter category, minus the fact that he knew why he was there. The will.

To be honest, Zexion didn't care if he hadn't been left anything. Actually, he hadn't even expected it. Mr. Gepetto had just been his companion for Thursday tea, nothing more. And now Zexion just wouldn't have tea with another on Thursdays, what next?

The talking at the gravesite took less time than Zexion had thought. Another priest spoke a few words, then the coffin was lowered, and a few people threw handfuls of dirt into the hole. And then they cried or tried not to or just sat there without tears to cry. Fifteen minutes after the sobbing and a tall, pale man stood, an icy look on his stony expression.

"Those who received notice earlier, please follow for the formal reading of the will."

From there, he sharply turned, blond hair blowing only mildly in the wind, almost fearful of being ruffled, and Zexion blinked. That was… most certainly chilly. He stood, along with a few others, and calmly followed the man down another path, to a small building nearby. All but the cold individual had a seat, and he announced himself as Vexen, nephew of Gepetto, and began to read the will.

Possession after possession was named from the list. For the most part, they were names, some of which Zexion recognized as puppets and dolls from Gepetto's workshop. Zexion found this will to be a rather long list, as Vexen continued in a slow but steady drawl of each item belonging to which person.

Zexion was surprised when his name was called, with one simple item attached.

"Zexion Hartwright shall hereby bequeath Demyx."

Blinking in confusion, Zexion opened his mouth to question, but Vexen's sharp look in his direction had him hushing before he could utter a sound. He remained quiet as Vexen continued through his list. Once he finished and folded the sheets of paper, he was questioned with the identity of many of the received items. Zexion inwardly smirked, the feeling of being in on a secret only few knew of forming in his mind as he watched the people around him.

Vexen decided to answer most of the questions in one go. "Ladies and gentlemen, your new possessions will be delivered to your homes, if not done so already," he told them.

Surprisingly, nobody had more questions. Vexen dismissed them and received quiet words of praise and pats on the shoulder and a few condolences, all of which he accepted but with that same chilling look on his face.

Zexion figured it was time to leave. Excuse himself, part from the group, get the fuck out of the cemetery…

He didn't realize how late it was until he checked his watch upon exit. It was late and dark, and he had missed his bus. With a soft sigh, Zexion tugged his jacket closer about his neck, knowing the weather would become colder once the sun fully set. Currently, it just barely hung over the horizon, and it was bound to depart in a few minutes. No more than half an hour at most.

Ninety minutes and seventeen blocks later, Zexion finally reached his apartment. His legs were feeling like jell-o and his eyes felt cold each time he blinked, but he was glad to have finally made it. The steps had complicated most of the mission for Zexion, but he managed to shift his way up the five flights to the sixth floor, all but collapsing on his door handle.

He could collapse inside. He _would_ the moment he walked inside. Being a bachelor had its advantages, to be honest—mainly, in Zexion's case, the opportunity of sleeping wherever he wished to. On his days of periodic illness, he would take the bathroom floor, sometimes the kitchen where he kept his medication; when he had work, he often slept in his bed, for his alarm clock sat on a table to the right of his pillow; on days when he read until he dozed, he was relaxed in his recliner; on nights like tonight, he would just crash on his couch.

It was just how things worked. Zexion sighed as he withdrew his keys from his pocket, sliding the gold metal into the lock above the handle. Turning until it clicked, he turned the keys upright and withdrew them then pushed open the door.

And paused…

_What… the hell?_

The young man tried to comprehend the current situation. A blond teenager sat on his couch, clad in a black pinstripe suit with a blue tie and a hat sitting atop a pale blue suitcase. He had his hair in the most ridiculous of fashions—somewhere between a mullet and a Mohawk—and the goofiest of childhood grins on his face. This boy was an intruder in his house, and he was _smiling_ about it.

"Who the hell are you?" Zexion asked quickly, his pale eyes scanning the boy's appearance.

This boy was unarmed. He had no visible weapons, and Zexion doubted he would've fit anything into the black converses laced on his feet. They were both calm for a few seconds, thankfully, but soon the stranger stood and Zexion almost panicked, reaching over to grab the lamp by his door.

The boy didn't seem to notice Zexion's unnerved appearance. Instead, he smiled, an innocent twinkle in his emerald orbs. "So, you're the one who got me, huh?"

That had Zexion pausing, fingers tentatively touching the lamp's grooved pole as he stared at the intruder. This intruder was taller—definitely, even without the hair, a foot taller, at least—and probably stronger—for Zexion was a frail and thin individual—though Zexion couldn't understand how this… person got into his house.

"Got you?" Zexion inquired. It took him a few seconds but it finally surfaced in his mind. Got, meaning received, meaning… bequeathed? Zexion bequeathed a Demyx… did that mean—

No, it absolutely did _not_.

Zexion fixed a dark look upon his pale features and shook his head. "No, I didn't. Now, if you will kindly excuse yourself from my apartment, it would be greatly appreciated."

The stranger in front of him bit his bottom lip, thinking for a few seconds. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a sheet of folded paper, and immediately pulled it open. "Are you…. Zexion Hartwright?" he asked, reading the name from the paper.

Zexion frowned and looked at the boy. "Yes…"

The blond grinned happily. "Nice to meet you! My name is Demyx McAlistair and I'm all yours!"

Zexion choked on the air for a second. "M-mine?" he spluttered. "W-what do you mean?"

Demyx gave him a shy little smile. "My uncle left me with you," he said. "See? He even left a note!" Almost overly happy, Demyx lifted his right wrist, revealing an envelope tied to the boy with a black ribbon. Zexion had to stare at the boy in disbelief—part wondering if this was some sort of harmful joke and part wondering if Demyx liked to believe he were a present. He took the note anyway and slowly opened it, thin finger tearing through the paper as he ripped the envelope cautiously. He soon handed the envelope and the ribbon to Demyx—so long as the boy was standing there, he might as well be useful—and opened the letter.

_To Zexion_, it read,

_It has come to my attention that you are unhappy. I've known this for quite a while, and although we aren't blood-related, I've decided to give you a bit of joy. I hope you will find love and happiness with my nephew; he is a very kind boy and I haven't met anyone who's been able to resist his charm. Perhaps you may spend your Thursdays with him, now that I have departed of this earth._

_Do take care of him; he's a gentle spirit._

_Signed,_

_Gepetto McAlistair, Jr._

_(P.S. Yes, if you're wondering, Demyx is potty-trained. He is not a puppy, though he may tend to whine as one sometimes.)_

Zexion dropped the letter.

So he was being given a happy little boy to take care of, because he couldn't drink tea with someone every Thursday? That was a tad dramatic, even for the spirited Mr. Gepetto. Zexion didn't believe this. It just _had_ to be some sort of practical joke.

Demyx was staring at him curiously. "Um, Zexion?" he asked. "Zexy? Is it a bad note, or are you still in mourning?"

Zexion almost twitched. He was being left this happy, perky thing of a person, and he was supposed to be okay with it. How in the hell could he manage being okay with this in his house?

And the thing… it called him _Zexy_…

"No, I didn't inherit you," Zexion said quickly, taking a step back.

"Yuh-huh," Demyx argued childishly. "Uncle G thought you needed company—"

"I didn't inherit you!" Zexion tried to convince himself, staring at the boy, his suitcase, the lamp… He didn't even know if it was legal or if he could get rid of the boy, but… how could he turn him down? Better yet, how was Zexion to deal with this?

Demyx had been calling his name again, but by the time Zexion finally looked up, all he saw was black.

He awoke again when he heard that new, unfamiliar voice of Demyx calling his name. With a groan, his eyes opened to stare blurrily at the new person, while he felt a sharp throbbing to the side of his head. It stung painfully and he began to wonder if he had been knocked unconscious by this creature, who, at a closer view, looked a lot thinner than he had at first. Didn't kids these days _eat_ food?

"You should probably lie down for a little longer," Demyx said to him. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay!" He smiled slightly and held a towel, placing it on Zexion's temple. It took Zexion a few seconds to register that Demyx had wrapped ice in a towel, to use in aiding the pain from the new knot on his head, and although he was grateful, he wasn't going to say anything.

He looked up at Demyx with another dark expression, though he knew it didn't have much edge to it due to his current predicament. "What happened?" he asked.

Demyx gave him a sheepish smile. "You passed out, buddy," he answered. "Just kinda… let the news sink in then dropped to the floor like a rock. Smacked your head on the table corner—I bet that's gotta sting… here, keep the ice over it, okay?" Demyx took Zexion's arm with his free hand and lifted it to touch the towel, and Zexion barely managed to hold onto it.

Zexion wanted to glare. He wanted to smack this individual's arm away and curse at him for existing, but he couldn't manage to hurt this boy. He was just so… _nice_. Zexion could only manage to cringe and Demyx pressed the ice against his temple again.

"If you feel kinda sick or anything, we'll go to an ER or something," Demyx told him. "You might've smacked your skull or your brain, could have a concussion or something."

Even as Zexion took the ice and let his feet fall from the couch, he listened as his… the… Demyx spoke about how he found a book on medical complications and treatments and how they could be helpful in a situation like this. He seemed to be rambling at this point, but Zexion found it easy not to listen completely. This was a technique he managed around his teachers and 'friends,' only absorbing a portion of the words spoken to him and involving himself when only necessary. And right now… Demyx seemed to be running a monologue.

He rested his head on the couch's backrest, wondering where Zexion could manage to keep him. He just kept thinking about the lack of space in his apartment and how there was no room to accommodate his guest. Zexion never had guests, so he found no reason for more space than necessary for one individual; Demyx's arrival was imposing. And Zexion knew that the peculiar blond would be too short for his two-seater couch, and there was no way Zexion was sharing his bed—however polite that choice may be—with this person (he doubted his twin-sized bed could even be long enough).

But he couldn't just get rid of him, could he?

A brilliant idea came to Zexion's mind, and as he held the ice closely to his forehead, he voiced his opinion. "Demyx… how about I give you directions to the nicest hotel, pay for your taxi, your room, and even your room service, and we pretend we've never met?"

Demyx laughed, letting a hearty little chuckle with a ring of youth and innocence fill the room provided by Zexion's silence. "You're so silly, Zexion!" Demyx grinned at him. "I'd take that offer, but I don't want to make you spend all of that money. Plus, you _have_ to know me, I'm yours!"

Zexion visibly cringed. He didn't like how easily Demyx just said that. A man willing to declare himself owned, with no sense of unhappiness… it was bizarre to Zexion to watch him, and almost a bit frightening. He could feel his headache worsening at the thought.

"Ooh, Zexy… you look really pale… maybe you should go sleep now, I bet you're tired. My brother said the funeral was pretty early…"

Zexion blinked and slowly turned his eyes to face the boy. "Brother?" he inquired.

Demyx sighed and nodded. "Yeah. Well, half-brother. You see, my dad cheated on Mommy dearest and the other woman left baby Vexen on his doorstep. Dad tells me it took absolutely _forever_ for Mom to forgive him for that… that's why me and Vexen are so far apart. Or something like that. Dad never really gave us many details…" Demyx had finally realized he was rambling and gave Zexion a sheepish grin. "So, yeah, my brother is Vexen," he said. "He's nine years older than I am."

"Is he, now…" Zexion murmured.

The blond nodded cheerfully. "Yup! He doesn't look thirty-three at _all_, but Dad blames it on the other woman. Either she wasn't all that pretty or she just ages horribly. Personally, I think it's because Vexen doesn't seem to know joy—"

"You're twenty-_four_?!" Zexion interrupted. Tuning out Demyx's idle chatter and selectively picking out the important information was becoming a bit easier, but he was immediately stunned. How could such a young, distracted chatterbox like this be in his twenties at all? Zexion had been guessing seventeen or eighteen, twenty _if_ that…

Demyx grinned at his stunned owner, nodding. "Yup! Turn twenty-five in April."

Zexion blinked in shock. That meant… Demyx was older than him… by _three years_?

"Um, Zexy…? Zexy, don't tell me you fainted again…" Demyx whined softly, moving closer.

Zexion shook his head, taking a few more seconds to think before finally murmuring a few words. "I didn't faint. I'm just… contemplating," he responded. With a sigh, he stood up, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling in his head as he began heading to his room. This couldn't be happening. Zexion wasn't sure what this was, but it couldn't be happening. He wasn't going to let it happen.

He reached his room, opening the door calmly while ignoring the footsteps of Demyx following behind him. "Demyx… I'm going to call you a taxi. You're going to a hotel. Then, tomorrow, you will go home, and we shall never talk of this. We shall never _talk_. Ever."

With an uncomfortable whine, Demyx was quickly at Zexion's side, holding onto his hand. "Zexion, no! Uncle Gepetto said I'm yours, and for good reasons, too! You'll only be alone again, and miserable!" he explained. Hands quickly gripped Zexion's left arm and the smaller one found himself swung around to look at the blond. This boy was serious, he noticed. "You'll be sad and lonely all the time and _especially_ since you won't have anyone to talk to on Thursdays!"

"Demyx…"

"I'm here to help you! I promise I won't get in the way; I'll make sure you're happy and we'll have fun and it's gonna be every day of the week!"

"Demyx…"

"And I know how to cook, and if I follow a recipe exactly I can bake a cake for you—"

"Demyx!" Zexion shouted.

The blond froze and looked down, green eyes giving Zexion the most piteous, tear-filled look he had ever seen. Zexion stared coldly, then sighed, shutting his eyes as his head faced the carpet below his feet.

"Fine… until we can work this out, you may stay overnight."

"Thankies!" Demyx cried out happily, placing a kiss on Zexion's cheek.

Somehow, Zexion managed shock, disgust, and embarrassment in one facial expression, staring at his bedroom door as he heard Demyx move from his side and to his luggage. Zexion cringed, wiping his cheek.

"Ew."

* * *

-**tsuzukeru**-

* * *

Yeah, so actually, it's a dark comedy. But note: Don't expect chapter two until another chapter of _T.C.S.T._ gets posted, though. I'm going to alternate.

Reviews make me write more, by the way!

**:Darkness Princess.**


	2. situation

Apologies for taking so long!

I'd personalize all my reviews but, well… I'm in Physics.

Sorry you guys, I'm going through a bit of writer's block, and it's midterms week, and if I ace everything in Physics from this point out, I might be able to scrape up a B in this class. Let's hope, okay?

* * *

**Nothing but Perception**

by Darkness Princess

**-two-  
**_Situation_

* * *

So this was hell. Zexion figured this had to be hell, stuck in his tiny apartment—meant for one, most certainly—with this new oddity known as Demyx. And he had been weak enough to allow the boy the privilege of staying in his house for the night, hoping that sleep could assist in bringing the blond to reason once his brain refreshed in the morning.

After all, Zexion didn't want Demyx.

He didn't want this man—Demyx should be called a _boy_, acting in such a gleeful, innocent childlike manner—in his dwelling for any longer than he had to deal with him. This just didn't make sense. None of it, not at all. Zexion's brain couldn't rearrange any of these situations into becoming a logical sequence of events, asides from 'Gepetto is dead'. That, easily, was understandable. But this… this 'Gepetto leaves his nephew in Zexion's custody'… this didn't make sense.

Gepetto had only been a neighbor. He had been a nice man whose grandniece sometimes baked cookies for him. Sometimes, his grandnephew would leave him some snacks he could put together later. Miniature cakes, packages of tea, sometimes even a few novels. And on some afternoons, Gepetto would spend his time indoors, downstairs in his study, making puppets for his nieces and nephews. He wasn't married so his brother's children had to visit often. Zexion never saw them, and sometimes he wondered if Gepetto was imagining his family—_another senile coot_, he had first thought—but a new sort of sweet would appear each Thursday he visited.

And now, that nice, lovable old coot was deceased and he was stuck with… his nephew.

Zexion wasn't sure why he, of all people, had been given a _human_, of all _things_ he could've received… especially a human who seemed so… happy. Their personalities clashed. They coincided with each other in just about every sense of the word and there was no way they could get along. Opposites most certainly did _not _attract, and people with no common interests were bound _not_ to cooperate. Ever. Zexion was hoping it would stay that way.

And yet Demyx didn't seem unhappy about that at all. He was extremely joyful, especially as he had been given Zexion's forced approval and the opportunity to survey the tiny apartment, still acting as if he would be moving in. Zexion was getting rid of him tomorrow morning no matter what. But… how?

That, most certainly, was the million-dollar question.

"Oh, wicked sweet!" Demyx shouted gleefully from down the hall.

With a flustered sigh, Zexion turned and headed in the direction of the call, his small feet carrying him quickly down the clean, empty corridor. Demyx had slipped into the den. Zexion had almost forgotten about the den. It was actually rather easy, for the door seemed like just another door leading into the hallway, and he had only been inside the room three times in all five years of living in the apartment. The door remained shut, windows closed to prevent light from pouring into the hallway.

He preferred it that way.

It was his place to keep his secrets and he didn't have to focus on them if he didn't choose to.

…and the door was open.

Zexion skidded to a stop in the doorway to find the mullet-haired boy standing innocently in the middle of the wooden floor, waist-deep in boxes. He was grinning happily, hands delicately supporting an old acoustic guitar. Zexion immediately recognized it as his father's, the old "country guitar" as he had called it when he was younger. His father had always found some silly song to play on it when he had pulled it out…

And now Demyx was tainting it with his fingers.

Zexion let blue eyes narrow into dark slits, expression reading 'danger,' yet he stood simply by the doorway. "Demyx…" he said slowly, voice icy. "Put… that… down."

Demyx turned to look at him, shifting the guitar into playing position. He beamed. "Don't worry, Zexy, I won't break it!" he told him. "I can play the guitar, you know! I didn't know you had one—"

"I said put it down!" Zexion yelled at him. It had been sudden.

Too sudden…

His eyes stung. He quickly ignored them, eyes narrowing more, Demyx barely visible, the boxes unseen…

"Put it down and get out!" he shouted. "I didn't give you permission to snoop!"

Zexion had shut his eyes by this point, hands formed into tight, stressed fists as he tried to calm himself. Here he was becoming upset…

How long had it been since his temper got the best of him?

He could remember afternoons in the room of beige-tinted walls and mahogany wood desks, a fuchsia couch and matching armchairs settled about in a set arrangement for comfort and style. The books always smelled used and tainted… their scent filled the office. He remembered the afternoon he stood on the couch and yelled at the man who had been watching him so quietly, attempting to tell him that everything would be okay.

Zexion had debated that.

Everything was _not_ okay. Especially now. Especially with this blond, who had taken the liberty of coming into his house and declaring himself Zexion's personal property, who had offered unwanted love and comfort, who had stepped into Zexion's secrets.

The slate-haired man hadn't noticed Demyx set down the guitar and approach him until he felt a set of thin yet firm hands on his shoulders. "Zexy, I'm sorry…" he apologized, speaking in a whisper. "If you want, I'll never go in there again, okay? I didn't mean to make you cry…"

_Cry?_ Sure enough, tears had dampened Zexion's face, leaving a few trails of salty water down his cheeks. He hadn't noticed it. And the stinging warmth in his palms… Zexion turned down, holding up his hands to see bruised and newly bleeding palms through a teary vision. A few droplets fell onto his hands.

"Zexy…?"

Glaring up, Zexion used the back of his hands to push Demyx from him, and he quickly ran to his bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

He… he was cracking, breaking again…

"_My little porcelain doll…"_

Fingers struggled for a few brief seconds before turning on the cold-water nozzle. Zexion slid his hands underneath the pouring spout and looked at the sink quietly, watching as streams of red danced about in the clear water.

"Zexy!"

Demyx was calling him… He knocked on the door. "You okay, Zexion? I'm sorry, really, I am!"

Zexion could hear it in his voice. Demyx hadn't meant to cause him any harm… it was unfair to put the blame on Demyx to begin with. Zexion hadn't even drawn limits when he let Demyx explore. This… this was all Zexion's own fault in a way.

Slowly, Zexion reached a wet hand to the door handle and pulled it open, looking at Demyx quietly. "I apologize for yelling," he spoke curtly.

He then promptly slammed the door and let his eyes roam about in the search for finding his first aid kit. It only took him a few seconds to realize that he had moved it to his bedroom a few months ago. He hadn't needed it since then and had never moved it back. Sighing again, he turned off the water and opened the door to find Demyx staring at him with wide eyes.

"Zexy, do you need any help?" he offered.

Dull eyes blinked in response and he made his way to his room, Demyx's footsteps creating a small pattern behind his own. Demyx didn't need to take as many footsteps as he did, but, when compared to Zexion's calm, short strides, Demyx took almost three times as many. They weren't an even pattern, either. Two here, three next step, once even four. Zexion hadn't meant to listen but there wasn't much else to hear in the emptiness of the hallway.

"You should get a radio," Demyx spoke idly, trying to fill the silence. "Your house is so… quiet!"

"Perhaps I like my apartment to be quiet," Zexion answered quietly. "Maybe you're just too loud."

There was a moment of silence and Demyx's footsteps strayed from the pattern. He quickly rushed to Zexion's side, blurting out a question, "Are you calling me noisy?"

Zexion almost took him seriously. If Demyx hadn't been attempting a pout and some odd sort of wink at the same time, then the younger would've considered answering. Instead, he merely continued to his room, sitting on his bed.

Demyx glanced around in awe—abnormal, for there was nothing special in the room—as Zexion withdrew the first aid kit from his top drawer and set it on his lap. He frowned once he opened it, staring at the empty bottle of antiseptic. He had basically doused his injury when he last used the kit… he should've expected it. There wasn't much to do about that, so he ignored it, tugging out the bandages and pulling them open.

"Let me help!"

The blond hadn't even received the silent denial before he was taking Zexion's hand in his own, bandage held calmly. From there, he began to tend to his wounds.

Zexion stared at him but could only manage to roll his eyes and look away. Demyx… was immensely annoying.

"That's not too tight, is it?"

"….no."

"Good! Now give me your other hand…"

Surprisingly, Zexion complied, staring at his closed window as Demyx secured the bandage wraps about his second hand. He only turned to look back at Demyx when he felt the older one touching his cheeks. _Stroking_ his cheeks…

"You're… still crying?" Demyx asked softly.

Zexion narrowed his eyes, smacking Demyx's hand away. "No, I'm not," he answered, rubbing at his cheeks furiously. He allowed the bandages to rid his drying tears and then fixed a red-eyed glare at Demyx. The blond shrank back for only a second before sinking to sit next to him.

"What's the matter, Zexy?" he inquired. "What's in that room you didn't want me to see?"

Looking away, Zexion focused on rearranging the items in the first aid kit. Band-aids and bandages to one side, wet-wipes on this end… out with that empty bottle…

"And now you're avoiding the question!"

Zexion slammed shut the lid of the kit. "Will you _hush_?" he snapped. "You're noisy! You're too noisy!"

"I'm so—"

"And you're nosy. You want to get into everything! I permitted you to _look_, not touch everything within reach!"

"So—"

"And I didn't even want you! I didn't ask for you, I don't want you here!"

Zexion finally looked up, to find a pair of tearful emerald eyes staring at him. Demyx looked on the verge of tears, holding a hand to his face with curved fingers barely touching his quivering bottom lip, and he sniffled, lifting his head with the sharp breath as if trying to contain it. And failing. Miserably.

And Zexion felt bad. He immediately felt horrible for yelling at him, especially after what he had been thinking about earlier. None of this was Demyx's fault, and yet Zexion had just placed all the blame of the situation upon his shoulders.

Demyx looked away, rubbing roughly at his eyes. "I—I'm sorry…" he squeaked. His voice had cracked, faintly audible to Zexion as he turned to look at him. "I d-didn't mean anything… s-sorry…" He looked over at him, the faint glistening of moisture smudged next to his eye. A smile found his lips, this one unsure and upset but beaming with a plea of forgiveness and hope. "I won't do it again, okay? Not if you don't want me to."

Inwardly, Zexion's heart broke.

Outwardly, he fell back against the pillows again, eyes shutting as he draped an arm over his eyes.

"Zexy? _Zexy_?" Demyx asked quickly. "Did you faint again?"

"…no."

Demyx sighed in relief. "Good! I guess you're sleepy then," he said, and quickly began a monologue about sleep and walking around and being energetic at nights… and concluded it with five simple words: "So where do I sleep?"

Zexion groaned loudly.

**

* * *

**

believe with your eyes

* * *

This… was not what Zexion wanted to see upon awakening. He had, out of the sheer goodness of his heart—_sarcasm_, of course—given Demyx his bed. It was the only piece of furniture, it seemed, long enough to accommodate the young man in Zexion's smaller-than-average home. Zexion had a small apartment with small pieces of furniture to accommodate his small family of _one_, and yet he received this horribly sinful gift which he was supposed to take care of until he found something else to do with him.

His only problem was he didn't know what to do with Demyx.

Especially after waking up in his bed with the blond lying next to him, his soft breathing gently blowing against the unruly strands around Zexion's face. How he had been moved here was a mystery.

He remembered angrily grabbing his spare blanket and carrying it into his living room, and then collapsing on his couch—at least he had planned that—but this morning… he was in his bed…?

At least Demyx was sleeping…

With a sigh, he shifted from the mattress, tugging the blanket so it still covered Demyx before stretching.

Considerate…

_Why am I being coniderate?_

Zexion mumbled unhappily to himself as he moved into his kitchen, starting a pot of coffee. Well, he might as well cook for Demyx… and cooking would give him time to contemplate. What to do with Demyx…

He gave himself a deadline: he would create an answer by the time he finished pancakes.

* * *

**-tsuzukeru-**

* * *

Ya… I'm sorry about this ending. I just… didn't know where to go with this. So I ended it where I could end it… Expect less crap next time.

Probably after Halloween, though. I have to finish my Saïx wig so I can take some miniskirt pictures.

Reviews and love make me happy! Critique if you want to!

**:Darkness Princess.**


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